


Cleaning in Progress

by Jem (allonsymous)



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Angst, Conflict, Gen, Introspection, Self Loathing, Texting, Timepetalsprompts, apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsymous/pseuds/Jem
Summary: Alec gets lost in thought after Ellie leaves him in the courthouse ladies room.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Time Petal's Prompts ficlet prompt of "Any fic featuring Alec Hardy."

Alec Hardy understood it wasn’t personal. She’d lashed out at him because he was there, and that pent up rage required a target. It could have been anyone, or anything. Hell, if he hadn’t been there, she’d probably have taken it out on the bathroom wall. Better to have his own feelings a little bruised than have her winding up in A&E with a broken hand. And god knows he’d been on the giving end of the exchange countless times with the people in his own life. He was practically the poster boy.

_Just try not to be alone today._

_I am alone, sir!_

He sighed, running his fingers through his beard, glancing at himself pensively in the mirror before looking away, feeling mocked by his own reflection. He should probably leave. The ladies room was empty, but it still felt a little intrusive being there. And he didn’t imagine the cleaning in progress explanation would work a second time, with him being all alone with no cleaning supplies, and hardly dressed for scrubbing toilets. He glanced down at the plastic janitor sign that Miller had tripped on when she couldn’t escape their interaction fast enough.

He was beginning to question what he’d really hoped to accomplish by cornering her in the loo. She was in a volatile state, and he was probably the last person she wanted to see right now. He was the one who’d caught her husband, after all. The one who delivered the deplorable, crushing news. God even though he’d been right, he still couldn’t shake the guilt he felt for going after Joe behind her back. And the look on her face when he’d broken the news to her that Joe had been arrested… he was convicted by that face a thousand times a day. That look of confused horror and betrayal. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, to tell her everything was going to be okay. But he was such shite at human interaction, and just barely managed a hand on her shoulder, terrified that even this small gesture would somehow be the wrong thing. In that moment—one of the worst moments of his life—all he wanted was to see that irritatingly sunny smile, or hear her crack a joke about his deplorable people skills, or call him a knob.

_Please, Ellie._

_Don’t call me Ellie._

It had actually surprised him how much that hurt, looking back on it. If he hadn’t been so busy trying to preserve his own feelings by remaining deliberately detached from everyone in Broadchurch, trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t connect to a town he planned to leave someday—nevermind the fact that he didn’t know how long it would be before that day came—maybe he wouldn’t have ended up entirely alone. And Miller had reached out to him. She was the only one who seemed to tolerate his company. He didn’t think he minded being disliked, until she’d reminded him what it was like to be welcomed by another human being. But being the bloody idiot he was, he couldn’t even humor her with a little small talk around the office like everyone else. And here she was, opening her door to him, asking after his family, trying to break through his glacial shell to find his humanity somewhere underneath, when everyone else had just given up and taken to using the DI Shitface moniker. And he’d had the bloody discourtesy to keep pushing her away.

_What about you, are you religious?_

_Aye. I pray every night you’ll stop asking me questions._

He really was a knob. God, it was a bloody miracle she’d even speak to him anymore.

_How is this my life now?_

_I’m sorry._

He flashed on that day, the day Joe turned Danny’s phone back on. Following the GPS across town, across the field and into Miller’s neighborhood. Followed it up her front steps and through her house, feeling both profoundly relieved and further subdued when he discovered it wasn’t Tom holding Danny’s mobile. Then out through the back door, through the garden and into the shed, where Joe stood waiting to be arrested. Ready to make a full confession.

He had been so sickened, he could swear his insides had turned to porridge and his erratic heartbeat threatened to pull the rug out from under him. He remembered interviewing Joe, it all seeming so unreal. This was the same man he’d laughed with over dinner, who made jokes about Miller’s attitude towards him, trying and failing to dodge his questions. And now he was being completely direct, explicitly answering every question with unguarded detail.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the memory of Miller shrieking at the top of her lungs as she attacked her husband in the interview room. God, he’d been so sick in the loo after that, it had taken him a full thirty minutes to pull himself together. It struck him later that he hadn’t thought about Sandbrook that entire day. Funny it would take the ghosts of one tragedy to banish the ghosts of another. Only for a short time, though. Now he was haunted by both. He still had nightmares of drowning, now accompanied by nightmares of Danny and Joe, of Miller screaming—raging—all her anger directed right at him, blaming him for destroying her life. He’d never been weighed down by so much guilt. It threatened to pull him right through the bathroom tile, never stopping until he sunk down into the center of the earth to drown in molten rock.

His phone chimed, and he sighed, extracting it wearily from his pocket. It was probably Claire—the last person he wanted to talk to right now. He glanced at the message.

Miller: _Sorry I lost it._

He immediately hit the reply button and typed an answer.

Hardy: _It’s okay. No need to apologize._

A few moments passed before his phone chimed again.

Miller: _Thanks for thinking of me._

He squeezed his phone, weighing his thoughts carefully before typing his response.

Hardy: _I’m sorry for cornering you in the ladies. Should have waited. Just worried about you._

He’d been shaken out of his circular thoughts, pushing himself away from the sink and stooping to pick up the cleaning sign, sticking it in the corner and emerging from the bathroom, shoulders hunched under the weight of his mood, not to mention the perpetual lack of energy brought on by his heart condition.

His mobile beckoned again and he looked at it.

Miller: _Don’t. I’ll figure it out._

Hardy: _Can’t help it._

He stepped through the courthouse doors and walked across the courtyard to the car park where his car and driver were waiting, opening the door and sliding into the back seat. “Take me home,” he said, as his phone chimed again.

Miller: _It’s my problem, not yours. I’ll handle it._

Hardy: _Right._

He hesitated before shooting a second text off.

Hardy: _Ring me if you need. Anytime._

The driver had said something, but he hadn’t really heard, and he wasn’t particularly interested. The car fired up, pulling out of the car park and heading back towards the pier where his little ramshackle cottage was. As they rounded the corner near the fairgrounds, the insistent chirrup of his mobile struck yet again.

Miller: _Thanks, Alec._

He rolled his eyes, tucking his phone back inside his jacket. God, he hated that name.


End file.
